


carry on, young gentleman

by strawberryfinn



Category: One Direction (Band), X Factor RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, POV Second Person, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryfinn/pseuds/strawberryfinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s hard, Mum.” His voice seems unfamiliar and used, and you think about how you opened the door last night and your son came in, looking simultaneously forty and four, and buried his face in your shoulder. How your shirt had dampened at the contact, tears spilling into the fabric, and how you’d reached up to wrap your arms around his slumped shoulders, wondering how to protect him from <i>this</i>.</p><p>(Or the one in which Anne Cox watches her son grow up).</p>
            </blockquote>





	carry on, young gentleman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aguantare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Here Comes the Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/601821) by [strawberryfinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryfinn/pseuds/strawberryfinn). 



> I highly suggest reading _Here Comes the Sun_ first if you haven’t, but this story will make sense either way. I do not own Anne Cox or any of the boys of One Direction or Gemma Styles. In addition, this story is very, very inaccurate but that’s because its fiction. I hope you guys like it. I’d like to thank irishnamesandpaperplanes for being my beta—she’s absolutely wonderful.
> 
> Also this story is dedicated to **aguantare** who is an absolutely phenomenal writer. I've loved everything that she's written and she has a way and a prowess with words that is to be emulated. She wrote me a story and it's a lot better than this, but I tried. (BUT GO CHECK OUT HER STUFF, SHE'S INCREDIBLE).

This is your son, small and fragile as the nurses place him into your arms with warm looks on their faces. There's downy, delicate little wisps of hair in a fringe across his forehead, and he stops his shrilling cries and gazes up at you, eyes huge with wonder. There's a pause and then he _smiles_ , eyes still watery with the previous tears, but he's _smiling_. His smile is toothless, just a tongue poking confusedly through his wet lips, and you feel your own grin break out on your face because he's here, and he's _yours_. You pull him close to your chest, let your heart beat through your hospital johnny against his tiny, soft body.

“He's got a set of lungs on him, this one,” the doctor muses gently, and your husband Des brushes some of your damp hair off your forehead. Des's disbelieving, enamored eyes are already glued to your son, who's gurgling and burbling in protest but not crying, just smiling. “Maybe he'll be a singer. Imagine that,” the doctor chuckles. “Either way, looks like he knows his mum already. Do you have a name for him?”

“Harry,” you answer softly, not taking your eyes off the vulnerable body cradled in your arms. “Harry Edward Styles.”

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, curled up in your bed as you flip through a cheap romance novel. His body is pressed next to yours, and there's a thumb in his mouth as he snores, small, comforting noises that serve as the backdrop to your reading. His face is round and pleasant, and his thighs are chubby with toddler-like youth.

You've discovered that your favourite part of Harry's body is not what most people would think—not the curls of gold-brown hair, not the bright green of his eyes, not even his dimples which appear magically when he gives you a cheeky smile. No, it's none of those.

Rather, it's the crook of his elbow, wrapped up close to his body like a secret as his thumb finds purchase in his mouth and he sucks contentedly, tiny body flush with sighs. It's the softest bit of him, the crook of his arm that he'll sometimes wrap around the base of your leg—as high as he can reach—when he's trying to get your attention. It flusters you sometimes when you're busy, when you're cooking or filling out tax forms, but even when you scold him, a part of you hopes he'll stay like this forever.

________________________________________________________________

This is your son traipsing around your house in your bra. It's a white bra—thankfully plain, rather than lacy—but you have to do a double take anyways to make sure this is actually happening.

Behind him, your daughter Gemma is laughing so hard she's slumped against the wall, eyes crinkled up into tiny crescent moons. Her chestnut-coloured hair hangs around her face, and she titters as she watches her baby brother parading around the flat.

“Gemma!” you shrill, and then, “Harry!”

“I'm sorry Mum,” titters Gemma between sharp peals of laughter. Her tears are watering with mirth so hard, and her hands are pressed at the base of her stomach, “He just really, really wanted to try it on.”

“Look Mummy, I has _boobs_ ,” crows Harry proudly, as he flaunts his newfound apparel sending Gemma into another wave of hysteria.

And you can't help it—you start laughing then, smile huge on your face as you search through your drawers for a camera. You can't help but think you're insanely, ludicrously, _ridiculously_ lucky—blessed with two good-natured, beautiful children. You've heard nightmares about sibling rivalries and wild fights, but for the most part, Gemma and Harry get along. Harry looks up to his older sister endlessly, and she babies him, enjoys dressing him up.

It's moments like these that you pocket, lacing the memories up on a string, tucking them in the form of a necklace close to your heart.

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, eyes wide with disbelief, mouth in a taut line, small hand linked with his sister's as they sit on the sofa before you and Des.

You have bags under your eyes, and the skin there is puffy and swollen, and your head is pounding. You've spent the last few days crying, and now Des is clearing his throat, and you think you might cry again even though you were pretty sure you'd run out of tears.

“Your mother and I have an announcement,” Des says, and he's worrying his hands, and you think about how you fell in love with him—too fast, too _fast_ —and how everything was wonderful and every touch was blissful, spreading across your skin and lacing around your heart like wildfire—and how it was burned out slowly, extinguished by time and distance and lack of trust. “We're... we're getting a divorce.”

Gemma promptly bursts into tears, her face crumpling like a smashed paper bag and skin turning blotchy and pink, but Harry, Harry sits there, green eyes big as ever as he looks uncertainly from you to Des and back.

“What's that mean?” he asks, and Des sighs.

“It means that Mum and I don't... we're not going to live together anymore,” he says carefully. “We... we think it would be better for us to be sep—apart because we fight so much.”

“Is it something I did?” Harry's voice is tiny, and just when you thought your heart couldn't break anymore it proves you wrong. “I can change, I promise,” and his voice is shaking and watery and so, _so_ innocent, and you can't help yourself.

“Shh,” you say, taking a step forward and settling between Gemma and Harry on the couch. You wrap your arms around both of them—your son and your daughter—and pull them close into your grasp. “Daddy and I love you two very, _very_ much, and this isn't either one of your faults. Daddy and I have just changed a lot, and we don't want to fight anymore and we know it hurts you two when we fight. We just... we've changed.”

“You don't love each other anymore?” Harry asks worriedly, bottom lip trembling precariously. “What if one day you don't love _me_ anymore?” He looks absolutely terrified at the prospect, and you feel the tears start to slide down your face in spite of your attempts to keep it all together, to stay composed for the sake of your children. 

Gemma makes a strangled noise next to you, and you pat her hair in a way you hope will give her solace, but you know that you've messed up truly this time, robbed both of your children of a functional family, forced them to be without a father. Harry starts crying in earnest now, after glancing bewilderedly at Gemma and you and Des, and you try to shush him through your own tears.

“I will always love you,” you promise, and you press a kiss to his cheek, certain like a stamp, a _promise_. “You will _always_ be my baby.”

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, poking forlornly at a plate of Hamburger Helper, nose crinkled up in disgust. He sighs loudly, and huddles his small face in his hands as he forks some food into his mouth and swallows miserably.

Gemma has long left the table to escape to the small room she shares with Harry (you know they shouldn't be sharing a room but your apartment doesn't have room for all of you and you're not going to have anybody sleep on the couch), whining in exasperation, “Mom, seriously? We've had Hamburger Helper every night this week,” but Harry's hungry, and you can hear his stomach growling, and you know he hates the government-subsidized lunches he gets at school. He's so sad nowadays, green eyes missing their normal light, doing his homework assignments with much less gusto, failing to prance around the apartment singing at the top of his lungs.

You can't do this. You're a single mom with a broken heart and two children looking up to you to support them, to feed them, to drive them to school, to love them, and you just _can't_. You don't know how to do this by yourself—at times you feel so, so alone and you wish (dangerously) that Des was back, because even if you fought all the time, even if he made you cry, at least you weren't in this _alone_. You haven't slept in days, and when you're not crying over him, Harry or Gemma is crying, and you're crying because they're hungry, and you just _can't._

The apartment's in shambles. The kitchen's in shambles. _You're_ in shambles. The dryer broke two days ago so there's wet laundry laying on the couch and the kitchen table to dry, and some of Harry's action figures are scattered across the dirty floor.

Your mother has come to visit, and she purses her lips, but she's kind enough to keep the disapproval to herself rather than expressing it. You can almost hear the words on the tip of her tongue, asking, _Anne, where has your life gone?_ but you force yourself to ignore it because if you let yourself think it then you'll start crying and if you start crying, then you're not being strong for Gemma and Harry, and that's something you _can't_ let happen.

When your mother speaks, she's gentle, voice concerned and caring. She places a hand on your arm, and murmurs quietly, “Anne, sweetie, do you want me to take him?” 

“That would be great,” you admit eagerly, “if you can just take them out of the house for an hour or so—I can clean, and maybe you could just take them to dinner-”

“No, honey, do you want me to _take_ Harry?” your mother amends her statement. “He can come live with me and Daddy. Gemma's old enough to understand these things, and she can help you out, but I can take Harry-”

“You're not taking my son.” You gape at your mum, and at the table Harry perks up having heard his name in the conversation. He takes in the tension in your shoulders, and the way you're staring at your mother like she's a stranger, and pushes his plate of food aside.

“Mum?” he asks, voice slightly strained, “Mum is everything alright?”

“Shh, Harry, it's okay. Can you go to your room? You can bring your food,” you tell him quickly, and Harry nods quickly.

“Bye Grammy,” Harry says, traipsing off to his room with his dinner clutched in his small hands.

“Bye sweetie,” your mother calls after him, and you hear the door close, and your mother turns to you. “Anne, be _reasonable_. You're not ready for this—you're not ready to be a mother, let alone one without a man by your side. It wouldn't mean that you love him any less, it just means that you love him _more_ and want what's best for him. It would give you the chance to put your life back together and-”

“You're not taking my son,” you interrupt her, firmly, squaring out your jaw. Because you know your mum never agreed with you getting married so young, never really liked Des, and you know she's holding back the _I told you so_ and you can't let her win. “You can't take him. He's mine, he and Gemma—they're,” your voice cracks, but you go on stubbornly, “they're all I have left and-”

“Anne-”

“No, Mum! No, you're not taking him!”

Your mum concedes her defeat, shoulders slumping, and nods. “Okay, honey.”

She stays to help you sweep the floor, does some of the dishes. Squeezes your shoulder in a gesture of support when she finally leaves.

When she's gone and Gemma and Harry have waved their goodbyes, you wrap them close to you and let them squeeze you and be your rock. You can't do this by yourself, but you don't have to. You've got your children, and you can do this together.

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, standing before you in a pair of too-small, striped pajamas. His curly hair is mussed with sleep, and he yawns then, before You swipe the sleep from your weary eyes and take another sip of coffee from your chipped mug. It's cold now, but it gives you something to do, and you need to stay awake.

“Is something wrong, sweetie?” you ask him. You've been skimming the newspaper, circling another job offer that you'll call up the next morning because you were laid off last week when your boss made a pass at you, and everything is so _hard_ nowadays—harder now then it's been in the past because your children are older, old enough to understand when things are going wrong, old enough to be _considerate_ now, and they try so hard to put you before themselves. But you're their mother, you're responsible for taking care of them, and it feels wrong for them to worry about you.

“Mum, when are you going to sleep?” Harry asks you, padding over to you and eyeing the pile of newspapers. Your eyes linger at the way his pajama bottoms are too short for him, his ankles sticking out as his feet curve in their characteristic pigeon-toed manner, and you feel a twinge of guilt.

“Soon, baby, soon,” you reply, sighing as you put the mug of coffee down.

“Mum?” Harry places the palm of his hand on the back of yours, and you look at him. “Can I...” he tugs at his pajama shirt with his free hand, “can I tell you something?”

“Of course,” you say, “what is it?”

“I just...” Harry trails off, a mixture of earnest and sheepish. “I think you're a really neat mum. Like, the best mum in the entire world.”

You feel the tears prick at your eyes. 

“Come here,” you sniff, and you pull him in close to you. He buries his face in your shirt, and wraps his arms around you, and he's getting so _big_ , you can hardly believe that he's already twelve, and in less than a year, he'll be a _teenager,_ but he'll always— _always_ be your baby.

“Thank you,” you murmur, pressing a kiss into his nest of hair. “That's very sweet of you, Harry. I love you, you know that?”

“I love you too,” Harry says, his voice muffled. He crooks his head upwards to plant a kiss on the underside of your jaw, and you rock him and remember when he was baby instead of nine like he is now. Remember how everything about him made you smile—how everything about him _still_ makes you smile.

And it's because of him that for a second you let yourself believe that you can do it.

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, a smile stretching from ear to ear, dimples in his cheeks. Adolescence has been good for him, has brought with it ripped jeans and grungy-looking band tees—at fifteen, he's starting to hint at lanky, long limbs and big hands. He's shooting up faster than you'd ever expect, and he hasn't even hit his growth spurt yet. His hair is longer, more untamed than it's been in awhile. He slouches, one hand in his back pocket, tries to look indifferent, but anybody who has functional eyes can see that he's thrilled.

“Mum, this is Dalia,” he says, and your heart sinks a bit as you take in the girl standing there. Dalia's pretty, you see that, with a tangle of dark brown hair and eyes haphazardly ringed with mascara, and she's edgy with her combat boots and ripped leggings and school blazer that she's frayed at the edges, but she's got at least three years on your son—looks old enough to have graduated uni.

“Hi Dalia, it's nice to meet you,” you try, and Dalia snaps her gum so loudly you flinch.

“Pleasure,” she sneers, thrusting her hand forwards, and your force yourself to put on a brave face because there's absolutely no reason for you to be intimidated by a teenage _girl_.

“Dalia and I are gonna go out for dinner,” Harry says, pulling Dalia in closer to him, his hand on her waist in a way that makes your heart clench. “That's okay, right?”

“'Course it's alright,” Dalia scoffs, “you're a grown man, Harry. You can do whatever you want.”

But Harry looks uncertain, eyes wide as he stares up at you, and you unglue your throat to answer, “Sure Harry, that's fine,” even though every part of you wants to say no.

And it's not like Dalia is _mean_ perse, but you don't really like the way she chews with her mouth open and cusses in front of you and is rude to Gemma, don't really like the way she slithers her tongue into Harry's mouth, or the way she pats him on his head like he's a pet.

You think Harry deserves the best, because Harry is the best. He's charming and sweet, and Dalia treats him like he's disposable. But you know that Harry likes Dalia, maybe even thinks he's in _love_ with her, so you bite your tongue and don't say anything.

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, who slams the door to his room, spends most of his time outside the house, and when he's actually at home, he's locked up on the computer or the phone talking to Dalia, who's now his official _girlfriend_. When you ask him to come down to dinner, you catch him rolling his eyes, and he doesn't apologize when you call him out on it.

You're not sure what happened to the sweet, gentle boy who promised you that you were the best mum in the world, who believed in you when you didn't believe in yourself because this stranger in front of you certainly isn't him. This stranger cusses at you under his breath, cuts classes, comes home smelling like alcohol, and outwardly denying drinking when you ask him about it. This stranger fights with Gemma, calling her words that make her cry.

Gemma starts at uni and moves out, muttering that she's so relieved to get out of this _freaking_ family, but when she sees the pain on your face, she hugs you and squeezes you tight and says she doesn't mean it, she's just frustrated because Harry's being an absolute brat. Part of you wants to chastise her, tell her not to say things like that about her brother, but your heart is heavy because you know that Harry's not being himself.

You've heard about teenage rebellion—you went through it yourself—but you don't know how to deal with it. Gemma was easy—she was sweet and ever your best friend. Sure she was difficult and sometimes screamed at you and claimed her life was ending, but it was all theatrical and exaggerated, and _tiring_ but nothing you couldn't handle. You treated her with manicures and taught her how to apply makeup, giggled with her about boys, but you have no, _no_ idea how to work with your unfamiliar son, how to make him talk to you, how to make him _love_ you.

So you kiss Gemma and wish her good luck and make her promise to call home and tell her you'll see her during holiday. Harry kicks sullenly at the ground and texts Dalia, and you make yourself believe that the real Harry is somewhere underneath the tough boy exterior, you just need to _find_ it.

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, anger etched into his face, hands balled up into fists at his side as he yells at you. You flinch, because _this is your son_ , but you don't know him anymore, haven't known him for the last year, really—but this is _it._

You're standing there holding a plastic bag full of marijuana, and your heart is stampeding in your chest because _how could he?_ The attitude you've learned to shrug off, writing it off as a result of puberty, the drinking you've learned to ignore too, because you know Gemma drank underage, and she's turned out fine, but _this? This_ is inexcusable, and you shudder imagining Harry taking hits off a joint, exhaling slow and steady. You think about him choking and gagging and spluttering the first time he took a hit, and you wonder how many, how _many_ times? How many times has he done this with those friends at school who don't care about him, how many times has he done this with Dalia?

“It's not mine!” he screams, furiously, eyes blazing. “I swear, Mum, it's _not_ mine!”

“Then whose is it?” you shrill back, because you're no longer just scared, but you're seething. And you don't know if you're angry at him or if you're angry at yourself. Because how could you let him out of your sights for this long, how could you let him do this? How could you let yourself believe—even for a _second_ —that he didn't need you?

“It's Dalia's!” he shouts, and the fight goes out of him in an instant, and he's on the floor, fists balled up at his sides and legs tucked to his chest. “It's not _mine_ , Mum, why can't you believe me? I swear to God, it's not _mine_. Dalia needed somewhere to keep it, so I agreed, but Mum, you have to believe, I didn't try it even once—I _swear_.”

“It was in your room,” you say, your voice shaking, “Harry, what are you _doing_ with a girl like that?”

“Nothing anymore,” Harry spits, but he sounds like he's about to cry and.

“She _cheated_ on me, Mum.”

The words lay heavy between you, and Harry's eyes are wide as though he didn't mean to say it out loud. He hasn't shared anything with you in ages—what you do find out about his life is through other parties—from teachers who tell you he's in danger of flunking out if he doesn't attend his classes, from friends who tell you they've seen Harry at this restaurant or after school doing this or that. Most of them spread the news in hushed, worried voices, eyeing you carefully as though they're afraid you might break.

“What?” you ask, your voice a breathy whisper, because you'll admit it—you don't like Dalia at all, you might even _hate_ her, but nobody, _nobody_ gets to hurt your baby.

Harry's shoulders sink, and his voice is small as he manages, “I caught her after school locking lips with Kyle Harrison, and I... Mum, what... what did I do _wrong_?” He stares at you imploringly, bottom lip wobbling, and you see through the angsty teenage facade, break through the hard exterior that is _not Harry_ , because your Harry is deep in there, buried deeply under this tough skin. 

“Oh baby,” you whisper, realizing you haven't called him that in God knows how long, “It's not your fault, sweetheart.”

Harry makes a strangled sort of a sound—a mixture between a whimper and a sob, drops his head into his hands. You step forwards tentatively, creep an arm around his shoulders.

You let him crawl into your arms like the child he is. You rub small circles on his back, press a kiss to his temple, and you know things aren't the same, and this is probably just a fluke... but, it. It's a start.

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, coming home from a late shift at work. There's flour smeared across his cheeks and dusted in his hair, and his work apron is disheveled and covered in frosting.

Things have been better between the two of you—a _lot_ better, and you're so grateful every day—but your son's far from being the sweet twelve-year-old who told you you were the best mum in the world.

“Harry, there's dinner in the microwave for you,” you tell him as you glance up from your newspaper. Thankfully you've been working a steady job as a hotel receptionist for the last two years—the best job you've ever had—and you just got off not so long ago.

“'M going out,” he tells you, as he crumples up his apron to put in the wash. “Haydn invited me to a party.”

You work to keep your face neutral, but you've met Haydn and you don't quite know how to feel about him. It's not that Haydn's rude or mean—not like _Dalia_ was, by any means—and Harry and Haydn have been friends for the last two years at this point, but it's just.

Haydn and Harry are in a band together—a band called White Eskimo that they formed after the blow up with Dalia—with a few other boys (Will and Nick, you think their names are), and they practice sometimes in your flat. They're loud and boisterous and boyish and talented, you admit, and it's not that they're mean or anything, it's just... you don't know them that well.

“Okay,” you tell him, counting on the fact that he'll probably be sleeping at whatever house the party's at. You know that Harry drinks, knows he likes to have a good time, and you're glad that he'd rather stay at a friend's house than climb into the car with someone who's drunk. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he answers, his responses short and terse. “I'll text you.”

You'll take what you can get.

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, a scarf wrapped around his neck over a white t-shirt and grey cardigan. His mouth is perked up in a small, nervous smile as dimples dent his cheeks. He stands in front of a crowd of hundreds (maybe thousands?) as he auditions for the X Factor, voice lilting over the sweet melody of “Isn't She Lovely?”

You can tell that the judges are smitten with him. He's young and fresh-faced and so absolutely endearing, that how can they _not_ fall in love with him? You know he's tried not to get his hopes up—he doesn't really expect to get through, not _really_ —he saw all those people outside, snaking around the building, maybe even all wanting this just as _badly_ as he does, and he has a plan. He's a smart kid, can go to college and study sociology, law, business—really, you think he can succeed at anything he puts his heart to, but he wants _this._

He gets through, and you're absolutely elated, pepper his face with wet kisses until he whines and tells you to get off. He even lets Gemma hug him, and you start to think that _this_ may be exactly what he needed.

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, laughing and smiling and looking so absolutely elated he's practically glowing. You don't know these other boys very well—this Louis, Liam, Zayn, and Niall—but you know that Harry's confessed to you he's _glad_ he didn't get through as a solo act. He tells you these boys might be some of the best people he's ever met, the best mates he's ever had. You're glad, because these boys seem nice, seem to really care about him, even if it's only been a month.

It really has only been a month, you think fondly, as you pull your son in close, but he's so, so happy. You've finally been able to make it out to visit him—saved and scrounged up enough money to stay at a hotel in London to watch your baby perform.

Harry presses a quick kiss to your cheek, hugs you, and tells you to make sure you get a good seat out there tonight. He apologizes, says he has to go to practice, and you kiss him and tell him of course.

You're just making quick conversation with some of the other mothers—there's Jay whose Louis's mum and Trisha, who's Zayn's mum—when there's commotion at the door. Your son stalks in, a broody scowl etched into his face, and your stomach drops. Your son stalks towards his room, stabbing the floor with every step, and you wonder what could have happened.

“Sweetheart?” you ask, peeking your head around the door.

Harry has his head in his hands as he sits on his bunk, and you're quickly reminded that all of the boys sleep in the same room. There are t-shirts and trousers spread out on the floor in a mess, several sticks of deodorant, and it looks lived in. Comfortable.

“Honey, are you okay?” You take tentative steps towards him. You sit down on his bed and put a careful arm around him. “Harry?”

“Leave it alone, Mum. It's stupid anyways,” Harry mutters softly, trying to push you off him. 

“Harry... was practice alright?” you try again, because this is your _son_ , and hell, it hasn't been easy raising him—raising a son on your own. Your mind runs through the steps you've taken with him—teaching him how to treat a lady, walking him through sex education, learning how to fasten a tie for him—all things that he needed a dad for. But you're here, and you're his mum, and you love him, _love_ him more than anybody else does.

“Zayn's just being pissy about dancing, and then Louis started yelling at Zayn and then Liam and Niall are useless and I'm just... _tired_ of all of it, Mum, okay?” The words come out, colliding together harshly like cars, and he pulls himself out of your grasp. “It's just so _stupid_ , and my voice is crap and I'm not _good_ enough for this and we're not gonna win, and I'm _scared_ , okay, Mum?”

You're about to open your mouth to reassure your son that _no, everything will be fine_ and _you are wonderful,_ ready to bolster his confidence the only way you know how when—

“Harry? Oh shit.” There's a nervous voice at the doorway, and both you and Harry look up to see a head of blonde-brown hair and cerulean blue eyes. Niall stands there in a pair of trousers and a jumper that you're pretty sure is Harry's as you picked out for him last Christmas, and blushes even darker when he notices you. “Um... sorry Ms. Cox, about yeah... the cussing and.” He shuffles his legs together, scratches nervously at his neck and chews at his lip, when his eyes go straight to Harry.

“Harry, mate you okay?” he asks, taking purposeful strides towards your son, and you watch as this small kid with crooked teeth and terrible hair and chapped lips plops himself down next to your son. You suddenly feel as though you're intruding on something intimate, but Niall surprisingly doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are fixed on Harry, and when Harry lets out a stressed sigh, Niall reaches up to wipe away a tear.

“Hey,” Niall croons gently, and you're amazed because you've seen this kid on the tele. Seen the joyous, spontaneous ball of energy from Mullingar, and this Niall is someone completely different than what you've garnered from interviews and Harry. “Hey, Haz, it's okay.”

Harry frowns at him, but it's not cruel, just the corners of his mouth turned down slightly before he says quietly, an admission. “I suck.”

“No you don't.” Niall's voice is so firm and sure it even surprises you, and Harry perks up to listen to the blonde. “Your voice is the best out there, Harry, and we're not really One Direction without you. We need all of us, and we'll figure out this dance, okay? Come on, Haz, we need to practice, okay? We're gonna make it—but not without you. We need you. _I_ need you.”

He extends his hand to Harry then, his palm open and inviting, gives Harry an encouraging smile.

You watch as Harry link his hand into Niall's, see the way their fingers intertwine like they belong. Watch Harry hold onto Niall like he's a lifeline, as they leave the room to head to practice, feel a pang of _something_ in your chest.

Later that night on stage when the boys bow to a cheering, whooping crowd, you watch Harry lace his fingers into Niall's on stage. They look so _happy_ just because they're standing next to each other and swinging their hands goofily. You see a nervous, unsure smile creep over Niall's face, watch it grow when he notices Harry's looking at him, and you watch as your son falls in love right in front of you.

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, so tall and handsome, but always your baby. It's a rare chance that the boys get to leave the X Factor house, but Harry's invited Niall over for the weekend, and Harry's already texted you a list of food and movies he'd like you to get. You've laid out a clean set of towels, a toothbrush in case Niall's forgotten one, some snacks.

Niall steps into your house, tentative and nervous, and polite, and you think to yourself that he's a little gentleman, but somehow he has no clue what he's doing. But you also know that Harry's quite taken by this boy, this bashful lad who's like a ray of sunshine, might even fancy himself in _love_ with Niall. Harry turns to look at Niall, and there's a small, secretive look that you almost miss, and you think you're probably right about Harry being in love. Harry turns to you and smiles at you the way he used to when he was little, a large, unfiltered, unchecked smile, and you can't help but think it's because of this boy who's standing next to him. Harry grabs Niall's duffel and heads upstairs, tells you he has to use the loo after giving you a tight hug. Niall turns to follow him when—

“Niall,” you hear yourself say, and the boy turns to you, blue eyes wide (and terrifyingly vulnerable) as though he's afraid he's done something wrong.

“Yes, Miss Cox?” he asks politely, coming back down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He glances upwards again, staring up the staircase, and you know he's looking for Harry, but Harry's gone to use the loo so you have a minute or two to spare.

“Please, honey, call me Anne,” you tell him, and you wait to see the tension diffuse out of his face, but it doesn't. He stands there patiently, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers as he shifts nervously back and forth on his feet and—

“Niall.” You start carefully, tucking your tongue around the words and wondering how you're going to say this—how you're going to tell him how you feel without overwhelming him. How you're going to tell him that he made Harry _Harry_ again, because in his eyes, Harry's probably always been the same. He probably doesn't realize it himself, you know, probably thinks that this Harry, this wonderful, intelligent, sweet _Harry_ is the only one that's ever existed. He doesn't know how three months before the X Factor Harry made you lock yourself up in the bathroom and sob and go through an entire box of tissues. He doesn't know that Harry made you wonder if you were a failure at being a mother, doesn't know how Harry used to fight with Gemma until she left the house in a storm and a _I hate you all_ falling off her lips, doesn't know how you almost regretted your decision to keep him and raise him on your own.

Niall looks up at you, gold-flecked cerulean eyes that are unblinking. He gnaws on his lip nervously, and rubs his fingers together as he waits for you to speak.

“Niall, just... thank you. Thanks for bringing my Harry back to me,” you tell him softly, and a look of confusion floods across his face. You know you should go into it, explain things to him, explain how sometimes before Harry met Niall, you weren't sure if Harry was your son—if you _wanted_ Harry to be your son and.

“Miss—um... Anne,” Niall replies in a voice barely above a whisper. He's blinking hard and rapidly, and for a second you're afraid he might be crying—is he blinking back _tears?_ “I... you should know... Harry... Harry saved my life.”

His voice is so genuine, so honest, that you wonder, wonder about this boy who's simultaneously an adult and a child, who laughs too hard one second and then looks subdued and sad the next, this soft, sweet boy who's made your Harry _Harry_ again. This boy with whom Harry is so unbelievably gentle and patient, this boy whom Harry probably kisses, and you wonder if Harry's saved Niall as much as Niall's saved him.

“Nialler!” comes a voice, and Niall gazes up the stairs before looking at you apologetically.

You nod, and Niall leans forward, presses boyish, chapped lips to your cheek, before bounding up the stairs.

You press your fingers to the spot of skin that Niall's kissed, and for the first time in a long time, you cry because you're _thankful._

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, face plastered on the cover of a glossy magazine. His hair is perfectly styled, wavy and pushed to the right, eyes enhanced to shine even brighter than they usually do, all acne marks and imperfections brushed away by Photoshop. You brush your fingers over the doctored photograph, and feel something prick at your heart, make yourself think for a moment that he's here with you, rather than in the United States, touring all across the country. You think he mentioned that he's in Tennessee now, and you think that it's not really true—he's not just in Tennessee, he's everywhere—in magazines and YouTube videos and newspapers _everywhere_.

Nobody and nothing could have prepared you for this. You'll never get used to seeing your son's face jumping out at you on magazines, never get used to the way he's mobbed by screaming girls who think he's some kind of sex god when he goes out for grocery shopping.

But when you talk to him on the telephone, when he comes and visits you, when you Skype him—he's so far away, yes, but part of him will always belong to you. And most importantly, he's _happy._

________________________________________________________________

This is your son's voice, small and choked and strained as he talks to you over the phone. The media, as much as it's helped with One Direction's success, brought the boys—all of them, up from nothing—can be _mean_ , so, _so_ mean.

“You've seen then?” he asks, and you don't even have to answer, because he knows. Of course you've seen.

_Pop's new playboy: Harry's 410 Hook-ups in a Year!_ screams the article, and there's a picture of your son in a web of women, all of them linking accusingly back to him with arrows. Apparently an insider claims, “The rest of the guys can't believe how far Harry is taking it and how many girls he's gone through in the last year alone... He's showing no signs of slowing down!”

You know it's absolute rubbish, that's what it is—Harry is way too sweet and too, quite honestly, _busy_ to be out hooking up with strange women. You know for a fact that he hasn't met half the women on the list and you know he's quite taken with a certain _boy_. You wish the media could have seen how torn up Harry was after Dalia, how sweet and good your baby is, how this isn't—none of it is true, and none of it is funny in the slightest, but your son is on the other end whimpering, begging you to believe him.

“Mum,” he starts, “can I. Can I tell you something?”

“Yes, of course, sweetie.” You try to soothe him, remind him that you're there—only a plane ride away, really, if he wants to come home.

“Niall and I...” he trails off, before swallowing hard. “Niall and I are together. I mean... like _romantically._ ”

He pauses, waiting for you to take in the information, and you refrain from telling him you already knew. The words are on your lips when Harry starts again, “I know... I'm really sorry I didn't tell you earlier, but I didn't know how and I just... I love him a _lot_ , Mum.”

“Harry,” you say automatically, wishing he were here so you could wrap him in your arms and cocoon him away to safety. “You're my son, and I love you no matter what.”

“Mum,” he says finally, “it's just. Things with Niall are... _different_ than they were with anyone else. It's just...” he trails off and you imagine him scrunching his forehead, eyebrows furrowed as he grasps at words on the edge of his tongue.

“Yes, baby?” you prompt, feeling for him and loving him and wishing he were at home rather than halfway around the world.

“It's just,” he tries again, “I think it's different because he needs me as much as I need him.”

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. There are tears in your eyes, and you feel your nose burn as one of them trickles down your face, and there's a steady thrum underneath your veins, a feeling of gratitude and awe and appreciation because your baby is growing up.

“So Mum, I mean... it's not true. None of it, because... what would I want with all those women when I have _him_?”

“Honey, I know-”

“I'm... I don't know what to do, Mum. Every _single_ interview, and they jump on me and accuse me of being a womanizer, and it's like...” You imagine him on the other end, trying to process how he's become the face of One Direction, how the demons of the world are grasping at him and tugging him every which way, trying to _break_ him. “They just make up all this stuff, Mum, and it's really, really hard, and it really, really _hurts_.”

It's silent again except for his ragged, damp breaths and slight sniffles and you know he's crying, your bright beautiful boy who just wanted people to hear him sing, whose had unimaginable success, who's poised and charming and caring, and at the same time, so, _so_ vulnerable.

_He's still a child,_ you think, _he's still a child_ , in spite of everyone's attempt to make him grow up faster, to target him and criminalize him as some kind of perverse sex god. He's still figuring out the trials and tribulations of love with a blonde boy with a sunny personality, and you wish they would just leave him alone.

“Harry, listen to me,” you say firmly, fiercely, and you imagine him perking up at the urgency in your voice. “You're a fighter, baby, always have been and always will be. I know it's rough, but stay strong for me, okay Harry?”

“What do I do when they ask me those things?” Harry's voice has faded to a whisper, and you picture him swiping the back of his hand across teary eyes. “I just...”

“You tell them the truth,” you instruct him, “tell them the truth—and if anybody asks you where you got your drive and fight from, well,” you pause, “you tell them they ought to meet your mother.”

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, head in your lap as you stroke his curlicues of milk chocolate hair, softest at the nape of his neck. He's been taller than you since he was sixteen, and he barely fits on the couch, but he's cornered up his sharp-jointed limbs, his lanky legs pulled up to his chest, and he seems so _small._

He takes a deep, shuddery breath, and a bolt of anger rushes through you because the media is so, _so_ cruel, armed with their expensive cameras, and everywhere your son goes, he's bombarded, _blinded_ really by a flashing of camera lights. 

“It's hard, Mum.” His voice seems unfamiliar and used, and you think about how you opened the door last night and your son came in, looking simultaneously forty and four, and buried his face in your shoulder. How your shirt had dampened at the contact, tears spilling into the fabric, and how you'd reached up to wrap your arms around his slumped shoulders, wondering how to protect him from _this_.

You hadn't expected it to come out this soon, had thought that Harry would keep it under the wraps for longer, and you'd watched the interview over and _over_ , heart stuttering in disbelief as your son took two steps across the room and kissed his boyfriend in front of the studio audience.

How the audience had applauded, whooped their support, and Niall had stood there, hand linked in your son's as they blushed under the eye of the crowd, and then that one person—that _one_ person had screamed _faggot_ and had thrown a water bottle at your son's head.

And you know it's not a huge deal in the big picture—know that the boys have had things thrown at them on tour, know that the water bottle didn't even make its target but had missed by a foot—but you'd seen the flicker of terror in your son's face, the way Louis, Zayn, and Liam were on their feet immediately, forming a protective shield around your son and his boyfriend—and you just _knew._

“Niall keeps crying.” Harry thumbs the pajama bottoms covering your knee, and you move your hand down to rub small circles on your back. “And Mum... he like... he _never_ cries. He's the happiest person I know, and I... I don't know what to do. It's... like a lot of people have been supportive, but... there's like... _so_ many questions, and they're really nosy and personal, and I think my mind's gonna explode. And then there's the really... _manic_ tweets, like... attacking both of us, but mostly—mostly _Niall_ , and I'm... I'm _scared_ , Mum. I'm _scared_ for him. He. Uh.” Your son pauses, taking in a hitched breath before he continues. “Before... before he came on the X Factor, he. Got jumped. At school, for being... y'know. He... he didn't tell me at first, but I. Saw the scar.” 

“Oh sweetheart,” you say automatically, your heart breaking, your mind whirling with imagined pictures of that beautiful blonde boy your son's so taken by crumpled and broken under the fists of narrow-minded adolescents determined to change his sexuality. You want to assure Harry that he's safe, that Niall's safe, that security will be there, that they'll get through this. That the boys are there for him, that Gemma is there for him, that you're there for him. That the crazed fans who are aggressively, _furiously_ protective of him will come to their senses. “It'll be okay.” 

_I promise_ , you wish you could say, but you don't know, and you just _can't_ lie to him. You've seen the tweets, the voracious ones that accuse Niall of being a no-good _whore_ , ones that are delusional and claim Harry's just _experimenting_ , and there's no way he's a homo, even ones directed at you asking if you knew the truth, asking you to deny your son's relationship.

“I got a tattoo.” Harry's voice breaks the silence, and you tilt your head to catch his glassy eyes, the mute misery in his expression.

“You did?” you ask carefully, because you don't know if it's a tattoo like the way Zayn gets them, pure fun and youth, and living in the moment or.

“Yeah,” he says, untucking his arm from his side and spreading it out. “It's for Niall.”

Tears prick at your eyes as you see the carefully lettered words, _won't stop 'till we surrender_.

“It's lovely,” you say, touching the inked skin carefully.

“Mum.” He glances up at you, green eyes fixed on yours, this incredible boy who surprises and amazes you every single day by his compassion, his golden heart. “Do I make you proud?”

“Every day,” you reply, as you link your fingers into his hand. “Every day.”

________________________________________________________________

This is your son, wrapping you in his arms and pressing a kiss to your temple. He's been taller than you since he was sixteen but it still comes as a shock to you because you remember that chubby, soft baby, the toddler who used to finger paint onto the walls of your apartment, the thoughtful, bright-eyed lad who once told you that if he had any superpower, it wouldn't be the ability to fly or to become invisible, not even super strength—no, it would be the ability to _heal_.

He leads you into the flat, tells you he's going to start dinner. Niall's sitting on the couch bouncing Darcy in his lap as a cartoon flickers on the tele, but a huge smile breaks out over his face when he sees you. Bryce runs up to you and grabs onto your legs, babbling, “Grammy!” and you ruffle his hair fondly as you scoop him up.

“You're getting so _big_!” you exclaim, “What are you eating, Bryce?”

Bryce giggles, sticks a tongue between the gap in his teeth and blows, making a whistling noise. “Grammy, when we gonna bake again?”

You beam at him, pinch his cheek affectionately. “We can bake whenever you want, okay, sweetheart? Promise.”

“Oi,” Niall cuts in cheekily, “no cupcakes or biscuits until you eat your veggies, right?”

“ _Daddy_ ,” Bryce says defiantly, squirming in your grasp to turn and face Niall. “I don't _like_ veggies.”

“Then looks like I'm eating all the cake around here,” Niall counters mischievously, patting his belly. He stands now, swinging Darcy onto his shoulders where she immediately latches her small arms around his neck, and stands up to kiss you on the cheek and give you a hug. “It's good to see you, Anne. I keep telling Harry you really have to come visit more.”

“Ni!” Harry yells from the kitchen. “Babes, how much steak do you want?”

“Give me the biggest one! My metabolism is still going strong and steady!” Niall hollers back, setting Darcy down on the floor. She immediately runs to you and hugs your legs, before her attention's caught by a plush teddy bear on the floor.

Niall and Harry's house is a mess, magazines scattered around on the hardwood floor. There are stuffed animals and toy trucks and dolls on the sofa and a stain from some grape juice Darcy spilled last week that went unnoticed until it was too late. But there are several framed pictures of Darcy and Bryce on the walls, one of a newspaper article screaming that gay marriage is now legal in England next to a picture of Harry and Niall from their wedding, a large one of all of the members of One Direction.

“I'm sorry about the mess,” Niall apologizes as he appeases Darcy from where she's whining and grabbing for his arms. He pulls her up into his grasp and then struggles to pull her off his shoulders from where she's grabbing his hair. He succeeds, and flops her down into his lap, blows a raspberry on her tummy and smiles as she shrieks with laughter. “We're not so great at this parenting thing.”

You smile at him. 

“Don't worry,” you say, “you're doing just fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> baby Harry in a bra: http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_md4tjcIxi01rimzuro1_400.jpg  
> the article that was referenced: http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mb6fxfgRmQ1r88wkq.jpg


End file.
